


Stuck to You

by Zachattack11234



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Artist!Reader, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt and comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, but they're only there for plot?, there's like a few ocs, they don't affect the relationship or anything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-22 23:59:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15593715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zachattack11234/pseuds/Zachattack11234
Summary: She’s almost as famous as Carl Manfred, and that is really saying something. So, when Connor and Hank arrive to a crime scene where she is the witness, and her best friends are the victims, they are both more than surprised.What's worse, is the killer is still out there, and we wants nothing more than for her to suffer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Connor x Artist!Reader this time because WHY NOT AM I RIGHT  
> WHY NOT CONTINUE DOWN THIS SPIRALING PIT OF DESPAIR  
> (when will I get my shit together??)  
> Also this takes place after the good ending of DBH where everyone lives and gets their freedom fyi
> 
> anyway yeah here's the thing that literally no one asked for lmao

It was supposed to be just a simple, fun night with her two closest friends. Nothing about that night seemed out of the ordinary; the drive to the house was quiet, the snow fell silently against the windows, the trees blurred past as the car sped by them. Yes, this night was supposed to be a peaceful one.

That doesn't mean that's how it went.

The automated taxi pulled to a stop at the house, a small one-story with a brick pattern and a front door made of oak wood. It was the house of her best friends, Mary and her husband Anthony, both of whom moved with her to Detroit to fulfill her dream of being a famous painter, one she'd worked towards since she could pick up a brush. And her hard work paid off, to say the least.

She was almost as famous as Carl Manfred,  _the_ Carl Manfred. And that thought alone was enough for her to consider achieving her dreams a success. Everything finally seemed right with the world, things were  _finally_ going her way.

Until they weren't.

Her heels clicked against the pavement as she gracefully stepped out of the car, shutting the door behind her and stepping up onto the curb. She swiftly walked down the concrete path to the front door, knocking on the hard wood. The plan was to have a nice dinner together, chat about life's happenings, maybe watch some TV or perhaps play a video game, like they used to when they were teenagers. She had never truly grown out of it, no matter how many times she  _insisted_ she's past that.

The door was swung open with such enthusiasm only Mary had, a big grin on her face as she embraced the artist like she hadn't seen her in years. Though, she did only see her just the other day. "Come in, (Y/N)! Anthony is almost done making dinner."

"Okay cool," she smiles as she steps inside the home, shuffling her coat off her shoulders and hanging it on the coat rack by the door. Mary closed the door behind her and shuffled to the kitchen, waving for her to follow. "The holidays are coming up, any plans to go back home? Visit any family?"

"No, you know just as well as I do that I don't get along with any of them. I left town for more than just you, you know," Mary eyes her with a suspicious glance, leaning against one of the kitchen counters that Anthony wasn't at. "Why? You got plans to head home for the holidays?"

"Hell no. You know what I'm running from."

"More like  _who_ you're running from!"

In a matter of seconds, everything went to hell. The sound of glass shattering and a loud, heavy thud resonated through the kitchen from the back door, and the three friends reeled back in horror, finding a brick having been the culprit of the broken door.

"Who the hell is there?" Anthony called out, voice rough and angry, having had his property  _vandalized_. No response was made, but in the darkness from outside, a leg emerged, kicking through the rest of the glass in the door and stepping through the hole, revealing himself. Her jaw dropped, recognizing just the man Mary had jokingly referenced just before the intrusion; Otis. "Mary, call the police."

"I don't fuckin' think so," Otis growls, pulling a gun from the holster on his side and pointing it directly at Mary's face. Mary yelped in terror, breath effectively getting caught in her throat. The artist froze in place, staring directly at the face that used to haunt her, hearing his  _dreadful_ voice. "Been a long time, hasn't it, (Y/N)? I've been meaning to have a  _chat_ with you for a while."

"Otis, please," she breathed, eyes wide, body trembling in fear. Mary was staring down the barrel of a gun, and all she could do was plead for him to stop. "They're not part of this, leave them alone, please."

" _Not a part of this_ my ass!" Otis shouted, shaking the gun in his hand and using his other to hit the side of his head. "They're the ones who stole you from me! You made me a  _promise_ , (Y/N)! And you broke it."

Before he could pull the trigger, Anthony had thrown himself at Otis and knocked him to the ground, dropping the gun. Anthony couldn't stop himself from throwing punches directly at Otis's face, having had his wife threatened at gunpoint. Otis grunted with each blow, but quickly gathered enough strength and willpower to knock him over and off him. He scrambled for the gun and grabbed it, swiftly turning to face Anthony on the floor.

With no warning, he pulled the trigger three times, shooting Anthony dead in his own kitchen.

Mary let out a blood curdling scream as she rushed to her husband's side, grabbing him in her arms, looking for any sign of life in his face. The artist stood silently, stunned, horrified. "Anthony! Anthony!"

"Sorry, I was expecting him to have lasted longer than that. Oh well, only a minor inconvenience in my  _real_ plan," Otis huffs, dusting off his black jacket and pointing the gun at her. "Well, are you ready to listen, (Y/N)?"

"You're kidding, right?" she almost laughs, but scoffs instead. "You really think I'm going to  _listen_ to you after you killed my best friend? Are you fucking delusional? Did those drugs mess up your thought process?"

"Are you forgetting that  _I'm_ the one holding the gun, (Y/N)?" Otis's lips stretch in a sickening grin as he slowly steps closer, stopping only when the gun is inches from her face, and she has no choice but to stare. "I don't give a flying  _fuck_ if you don't  _want_ to listen. You're  _going_ to listen. And there isn't a  _goddamn_ thing you can do about that."

"You're a real pathetic man, Otis," Mary finally says, looking up at him through red, tear-filled eyes. There was a hatred burning stronger than any she'd ever seen in Mary's eyes, and if she had the upper hand, it was obvious that Otis wouldn't stand a chance. But Otis had the gun, the nerve, and the desire for vengeance. He would  _always_ win. "You know that?"

"Sorry, Mary, but I'm afraid I want to have this conversation  _alone_ ," Otis adds emphasis to the word by cocking the gun, pointing it directly at her head, and firing one single bullet into her brain. Her body slumped over her husband's, a bittersweet end, dying in the arms of the person you loved. How tragic. "Now that I've taken care of  _that_ little mess, let's chat, shall we?"

"You're a  _monster_ ," she hisses, eyes never leaving the bodies of her two best friends. She couldn't contain the tears that spilled from her eyes, but she never backed down from the disgusting piece of human  _filth_ in front of her. "You fucking  _killed them_. They didn't do anything to you!"

"They  _stole you from me_! They had this coming," Otis sneers, pointing the gun back at the object of all his anger, pain,  _hatred_. "Answer me this, (Y/N). Do you remember what I wrote you in the yearbook?"

"What? What the fuck does that have to-"

" _Do you remember what I wrote you in your fucking yearbook_ _!?_ " he bellows, stepping closer and shoving the gun into her chest painfully, patronizingly, baring his teeth at her. She quickly shakes her head, unable to find her words, breath caught in her throat. "I wrote that if you weren't my sister in the future, I would fucking kill you, and burn your house down. I fucking  _meant_ what I said, (Y/N)."

"Otis, please, listen-"

"NO _, you_ listen!" Otis damn near  _screams_ , shaking in rage. She let out a shaky breath, eyes darting to her best friends' dead bodies. She knew that if she didn't do something soon, she would be joining them. "You were supposed to be my  _friend_! You were supposed to be my  _sister_! You weren't supposed to  _leave me_! But no, you couldn't help yourself. You left with  _them_ , and  _abandoned me_!"

"Otis, it wasn't like that, I-"

"I'm tired of listening to your excuses! Every time you tried to push me away, you gave me a bullshit excuse!  _Oh, Otis, I'm sorry, it's not you, I'm just going through things! Oh, Otis, you've been hurting me, it pains me to see you like this! Oh, Otis, I can't do this anymore, it's not you, it's me._ I'm sick of hearing it!" Otis is trembling now, mocking her voice in a higher pitch, making exaggerated movements to further his point. "You've always been disgusted by me, you've always been  _running_ from me. Well, now there's nowhere to run. I have you right where I fucking want you."

He shoves the gun up to her chin, tilting it up to look deep into his murderous green eyes, an image she thought would be the last she ever saw. The edges of his lips curled up in a smirk, and he leaned close to her ear, and whispered, "But killing you now would be too easy. No, I have to make  _sure_ you suffer before I put you out of your misery."

He steps back and turns on his heel, quickly heading out the way he came, leaving her standing still in complete shock.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

* * *

Connor and Hank arrived at the scene at around 9 PM, approximately 30 minutes from when the killer escaped. The 911 caller was sitting on the porch steps, eyes downcast at the concrete path she'd walked up not even an hour ago. Connor slowly approached with his older partner, kneeling down in front of her to get a better look.

After a quick scan of her face, the results came up with (Y/N) (L/N), the famous artist who was rumored to have risen to the top from the ashes of a broken home in a smaller town far from Detroit. 

"Excuse me, ma'am?" Hank finally speaks up, and she raises her head to look at him, grief clearly present on her soft features. He recognizes her almost immediately as the famous artist, but he chooses not to bring it up. "Can you tell us what happened here?"

"Y-yeah. We-we were about to have dinner, Anthony was still cooking, a-and Mary and I were just talking," she has a hard time getting the words out, and it comes out slow, like she was still trying to wrap her head around the events that transpired in front of her. "Then Otis showed up and broke the-the back door. He had a gun!"

"Whoa, whoa, Otis who?" Hank stops her short, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. She wipes the tears from her eyes and takes a deep, shaky breath.

"Otis Keller," she shakes her head, closing her eyes. She still had a hard time believing what had happened. Otis had  _never_ threatened her before, and the "threat" in her yearbook was supposed to just be a silly joke they had going. She never thought he really  _meant_ that. "I-he was an old friend from high school, I-I don't know how he found me? I don't know how he found  _them_."

"Okay, Connor, send out an APB on "Otis Keller"," Hank commands, and Connor nods, LED turning yellow for just a short moment, before flickering back to its usual calm blue. "What else can you tell us about the murder?"

"Well, a-after he broke in, Anthony told Mary to c-call the cops, but he pointed the gun at h-her to keep her from calling," she stuttered, unconsciously rubbing her arm nervously. "I-I couldn't bring myself to call in-in case he shot her. I pleaded with him to stop. Turns out it didn't matter..."

Hank remained silent, jotting down the important details on the pad of paper underneath the name. Connor simply stared intently at her, drinking in every word that came out of her mouth, absorbing as much information pertaining to the case as possible. He wanted to find this guy and make sure he paid for everything he did to this poor woman.

"Anthony didn't like that Otis was pointing a gun at Mary. He did what he thought was right in that moment. He charged at Otis, and knocked him to the ground," her voice was a little clearer now, but her voice sounded cold, numb, unfeeling. She was past the point of tears. "I-I don't know why I didn't grab the gun. I was...frozen."

She stops for a moment, covering her face with her hands. Connor couldn't really explain why, but he felt the sudden urge to put a hand on her shoulder, to try and reassure her that everything would be alright. But he couldn't assure that, because Otis was still out there, and as long as he was out there, she wouldn't be safe. Not anymore.

"Otis knocked Anthony off him after Anthony hit him a few times, and managed to get the gun back from the floor. Otis  _shot_ him, three times, and Mary ran over to him to hold him," her voice cracked at the end, and she had to use most of her energy to hold back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes again. She let out a shaky breath, squeezing her hand around her arm. "Why didn't I just grab that fucking gun when I had the chance?"

"You were afraid, kid. There's nothing wrong with being afraid," Hank tries to console her, stopping the movement of his pen for a short moment as he spoke up. "So, don't beat yourself up about it. It's not your fault."

"But it  _is_ , that's the thing!" she shakes her head, squeezing her arm tighter. "He wouldn't have come after them if I'd stayed. He wouldn't have come after them if I wasn't famous. He came after them because of  _me_ , to  _hurt me_. Because killing the people I cared about most would hurt me more than just killing me himself. He admitted that."

Hank swallows the unintentional knot that formed in his throat, and he quickly scribbles down that thought, finding it may be helpful to the investigation. Connor makes a mental note of this statement as well, storing it deep within his memory drive. "What happened after he shot Anthony?"

"He argued with me, but Mary spoke up, and he shot her too," she let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, and she visibly scowled at the memory. "I called him a  _monster_. He  _is_ a monster."

"He said he wanted to talk, he killed them because he wanted to talk to me  _alone_. That's what he told me. But I  _know_ that wasn't the only reason. I know him better than that," her voice is barely above a whisper at the end, eyes looking off to the side. Connor looks in that direction too, but sees nothing out of the ordinary enough to catch his attention, so he returns his gaze back to the woman in front of him. "He yelled at me, threatened me, he said something about killing me and burning my house down, and he held the gun up to my chin. I thought for sure I would be joining my best friends in the pile of bodies, but instead he told me that he wanted to watch me suffer before putting me out of my misery."

"He escaped out the back door after sparing me my life," she points through the front door toward the smashed back door, glancing behind her as she does so. Hank finishes writing down the statement and Connor gets up from his crouched position in front of her, walking past her through the doors and into the crime scene.

"Hey Chris, can you watch over this witness while I check out the crime scene? Don't let her go anywhere," Hank calls out, following the android inside the house. Connor walked through the living room to the kitchen, where the crime took place. He crouched beside the slumped over woman, scanning the face of the man underneath her top half. The man was Anthony Keen, no criminal record, just a simple man with a simple life, snuffed out by a maniac looking for revenge.

"Aw Jesus Christ, that's so sad," Hank mutters under his breath when he sees the way the bodies are laid, one over the other in one final loving embrace. Connor ignores this comment, instead scanning the face of the woman. Mary Keen, maiden name Gonzales, no criminal history, an X-ray tech for the hospital. "Looks like they really loved each other."

Once again Connor stands, walking over to the brick on the floor, not far from the broken door. He scans the brick, finding fingerprints belonging to Otis Keller. The brick was used to smash open the door. He strides to the back door, stepping carefully through the broken glass to the backyard, scanning the footprints left in the snow. The footprints matched a pair of size 11 vans, leading to the back wall of the yard. "Lieutenant?"

"What is it, Connor?" Hank calls out to him, seeing him standing still on the back porch. Connor turns around to face Hank, and waves for him to come to him. Hank groans and rolls his eyes, walking over to him with his arms crossed.

"There's footprints, leading to the back wall," Connor points to the trail, following it to the back wall with his eyes. "The prints match those of a size 11 vans shoe, and there's only two sets; the ones leading from the side yard to the porch, and the ones leading from the porch to the back wall. He must have escaped over that fence and ran through the backyards of homes."

"Shit, so he could be in any of these people's yards?" Hank visibly pales, and Connor nods grimly. He lets out a string of curses and storms back inside to inform everyone of Connor's discovery, and Connor follows to finish examining the crime scene. So far, all the evidence was lining up with her story, not that he believed for even a second that she had been lying.

He examined the wound on Mary's head, finding the entry of the bullet to be on her right temple, and the exit being to the left. His gaze moved from the woman to the man, scanning his fists to find that his knuckles were bruising.  _Signs of a struggle._ His eyes traveled up his hands to his chest, where there were three bullet holes, assumed to have been shot seconds apart.

He looks at the stove, finding unfinished food still there, though the burners were off.  _They were about to have dinner._ A chair was on its side on the floor, knocked over at some point during the fight. 

He had all the clues he needed to reconstruct the scene, and watched as the exact story the witness told them unfolded in front of his eyes in great detail. He sighs, walking over to the slouched over lieutenant, leaning against the wall not far from him. "Lieutenant, the witness's statement matches up with the evidence. I believe we have everything we need."

''Huh, everything we need," Hank repeats mockingly, pushing himself off the wall and walking towards the door with Connor close behind. "We need an officer to protect (Y/N) until we catch this Otis guy. If what she says is true, then he  _will_ be coming for her, and we can't let him take her life. I say you do it."

"Me?" Connor stops for a moment, and Hank stops too. Hank gives him the  _are you fucking kidding me right now_ look, a look Connor recognizes all too well. "Are you sure I'm the right person to do this?"

"Connor, you're the  _best_ person for this. An android body guard, I can't think of anyone more suited for the job than you," Hank almost snorts, crossing his arms and stopping just a few inches from the door. "There's no doubt in my mind that Otis will come for her, and when he does, he'll have the most advanced android prototype standing in his way. Then, you can be the one to bring him in."

"And what about the investigation? Shouldn't I be assisting you?" Connor asks, tilting his head to the side like a confused puppy. How cute. Hank groans and rubs his eyes with his index finger and thumb, heaving a heavy sigh.

"Connor, I've led cases harder than this  _by myself_ for years. I don't need your  _assistance_ in this case. What I  _need_ you to do is keep an eye on (Y/N), so she doesn't get killed by that fucking maniac," Hank crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes just slightly at the android. "Are we clear?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," Connor nods in agreement, albeit hesitantly. It wasn't that he didn't want to protect her, in fact it was quite the opposite, but even after becoming deviant he still had a hard time abandoning his current objectives. He wanted to protect the artist, but he also wanted to assist Hank in finding the son of a bitch. He couldn't do both.

"Okay, good. Now, let's go break the news to her," Hank sighs, putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him forward out the door. Once outside, the witness wasn't where they left her. "Chris! Goddammit, where did the witness go!?"

"I'm right here, sorry," she takes a few steps out of the shadows, holding a cigarette between her fingers. She had walked over to the garage with permission from Chris after Gavin began to pester her and make her uncomfortable while Hank and Connor were inside the house. Fucking Gavin. "I just-I needed a cigarette, okay?"

"Okay, that's fine. So, listen," Hank walks over to her with Connor, and she flinches at the word.  _Listen._ Otis said it a hundred times, told her to  _listen_. She knew there was nothing to worry about, Hank was a  _lieutenant_ , not a crazed murderer driven by vengeance. So why is it when he said that word her heartbeat increased at a dangerous level? Hank started to speak again, but she lost her focus, and heard nothing. "Uh, ma'am? Are you listening?"

"I'm sorry, what?" She shifted her gaze up at the lieutenant, forgetting about the cigarette in her fingers. It had burned down so much to the filter that it burned her. She dropped the butt to the ground with a quiet gasp, looking at the small mark on her fingers. She didn't realize how close she'd been holding it to the actual cigarette. Usually she shifted her hold enough to not burn herself, but she was so lost in her own thoughts she forgot about it completely.

"Is everything alright?" Connor asks, and it suddenly dawns on him that it's the first time he'd actually spoken to her. Her eyes shoot from the burn on her fingers to Connor, seeing the bright LED flicker yellow. Hank seemed a bit worried, too, but he did his best to keep that mild concern hidden. He had a reputation to keep, you know.

"Yeah, I'm fine, sorry," she shook the pain out of her hand and stuffed it into her coat pocket. The first responders had been kind enough to give her the coat back since it was still snowing at the time. Her gaze slowly left Connor and traveled to Hank, who just shook his head and sighed. Sighing seemed to be a big thing this man did. "What were you saying?"

"I was  _saying_ that with Otis still out there, you aren't safe. If he wants to kill you and burn your house down, then we need to find him as soon as possible, but until we  _do_ find him," he pauses, motioning to the android beside him, "Connor, here, will stay with you and protect you."

"Wait,  _what_ _!?_ " her eyes grew wide and shot back to the android, who simply stood still and watched her every movement. She didn't  _hate_ androids, in fact, she loved them very much. She was ecstatic when she heard that androids gained their freedom. It warmed her heart. But having an  _android guard?_ Yeah, that felt wrong to her, somehow. 

"It's either that, or we put you in witness protection," Hank states simply, raising a brow at her. She gulped, straightening herself and shifting her gaze rapidly between the two. "But either way, you need to be protected. At least until we find him and put him behind bars."

"An android, though? I mean..." she trails off, slowly looking down at the concrete. She never  _had_ an android before, and the only time she'd really ever spoken to an android was with Markus when visiting Carl sometimes. And, yes, those conversations were pleasant and no android has ever given her reason to believe they aren't polite or trustworthy, but putting her life in the hands of one seemed a bit farfetched.

"I assure you, Ms. (L/N), I am more than capable of protecting you," Connor attempts to sound reassuring, but it comes off as weird and narcissistic, in a way. He cringes at himself slightly, but refrains from saying more.

"I mean, I wasn't doubting you or anything," she mutters, shuffling uncomfortably in place. Hank shot the android a glare, and Connor smiled awkwardly back at him. "But yeah, okay, I guess if there's really no other option."

"There really isn't," Hank insists, pushing Connor forward once again to stand beside her. He pats the android on the back once, and turns to walk away. "Okay Connor, get her home."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Connor nods, turning to face her. She had pulled her hand pack out of her pocket and been looking at the forming burn marks on her fingers. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't very pretty either. Unconsciously, Connor reaches for her uninjured hand and takes it in his own gently, slowly, and even he is unsure of why he did this small movement. She didn't seem to mind, though, because she squeezed his hand back.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor doesn't know very much about art, but he would like to.  
> Thankfully, he had an artist to answer his questions right in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is weird??? It's like cute and sad???   
> huh????
> 
> Yeah I hope you guys like this, there's a lot of talk about art and stuff.  
> (that's how I genuinely feel about art, btw. It's a beautiful thing)

"This is my house. It's not very big," she says as she hangs the coat up in the closet. Connor closes the front door behind him and locks all three locks, first the handle, then the deadbolt, then finally the chain. "But it's comfortable. So, uh, just make yourself at home, I guess."

Connor looks around the living room as she walks away down the hall to her bedroom. There were a few paintings on the walls, enough to add a nice touch without feeling like she was shoving her success down her guests' throats. If she ever  _had_ guests, that is. 

After wandering the rather small house for a few minutes, absorbing and cataloging his surroundings for future reference, he goes to follow down the hall, turning the corner just as she emerged from her bedroom. She jumped with a yelp, reeling back toward the bedroom in surprise. As soon as her mind registered the android standing there, she sighed, visibly relaxing. "Jesus, guy, you can't-you can't just sneak up on people like that."

"My apologies, Ms. (L/N)," Connor apologizes, stepping out of the way to let her pass. She glances back at him and shakes her head, walking back to the living room. She changed out of the clothes she'd worn to Mary and Anthony's house and had gotten into a pair of sweat pants and a plain shirt covered in paint stains.

"You should just call me (Y/N)," she walks around the side of the couch and takes a seat, motioning for Connor to join her. "It, uh, makes me feel weird when people are super formal with me. I'm still really young, you know?"

"I see," Connor sits down beside her, not too close, but not too far. She rubs her arm awkwardly, eyes shifting around the room. See?  _This_ is why she didn't want to have an android protect her, she's too awkward! At least with a  _human_ protecting her it would be easier to talk to them. But an android? What was she supposed to say? Every time he responded he sounded weird, and she understood that wasn't his fault but  _still_ , it felt wrong, somehow. "May I ask you a personal question, (Y/N)?"

"Oh, uh, sure," she turns to look at him, surprised he was the one to start the first conversation, even if it was a question. He turns his whole body to face her, tilting his head to the side.

"When we came inside, you said your house wasn't very big. I've come to understand that most famous people live in large, luxurious mansions," he states, and she raises a brow, unsure of how that was a question. It was more of a  _statement_ , but okay. "So, why have you chosen to live in a small home?"

"Oh. Well, I guess it's because I live alone, and I don't have anybody. I don't even have a dog," she shrugs, leaning back against the arm of the chair. She felt a little more comfortable now that they were talking, even if it was a little weird to be questioned about her living situation. What was so wrong about keeping it simple? "If I lived in a big mansion like Carl, I would probably go fucking crazy."

"I would not have thought you were one to live alone," Connor hums to himself in thought, and she could have sworn she saw his LED briefly flash to yellow before it went back to blue. "I thought people would be lining up at your door to date you."

She laughs, for the first time all night, and her face turns a light shade of red at his comment. He tilts his head to the side again, confused as to why she was laughing. He didn't say anything funny, though, did he? "Oh, honey no, you think people haven't  _tried?_ " She jokes, unable to help the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. "I mean, there was that _one_ cop that wouldn't stop hitting on me until the other one let me walk away."

"Let me guess; Gavin Reed?"

"Yeah, probably," she laughs again, and Connor can't help but smile at her. Seeing her open up a little more was a nice thing to see, it made him feel all fuzzy inside, and even as a deviant, he didn't remember ever feeling this before. "But yeah, I don't know, I guess I'm just waiting for the right person to come along. Good people are hard to come by, nowadays."

"Well, I'm sure the right person will come along soon," he assures, giving her a lopsided smile. She brushes a strand of hair out of her face and sighs, shaking her head with a small smile on her face. He was so cute she could just  _die_. "So, you're an artist. Can you tell me more about it?"

"More about art? Or more about being an artist as a whole?" she perks up at his mention of art, sitting up to be a little closer to him. She could probably talk for  _hours_ about art and being an artist. It  _was_ her job, after all. 

"It doesn't matter, I just want to hear you talk about art," he shrugs, and it's an oddly human gesture for an android. Her face lights up, and he smiles to himself. He got her to think about  _something else_ than the tragedy that befell her, and knowing that made him feel weird.

"Well, I was interested in drawing and painting ever since I could lift a pencil, for starters. There was just something magical about being able to create something, being able to get all those weird emotions and thoughts out onto papers and canvas, without anybody being able to tell you it sucked. Because nothing in art has to be perfect, it can be weird, and it doesn't  _have_ to make sense," she has this sparkle in her eye as she speaks, and it makes Connor's artificial heart beat faster. "It can be whatever you want it to be."

"Art doesn't have to be perfect?" Connor's LED turned yellow for a brief second as he seemed to contemplate this, rubbing his hands together in a motion he did frequently. 

"No, of course not! I mean, my art is by no means  _perfect_ , there's always room for improvement, but that doesn't mean that my artwork is bad. Just because there may be flaws, that doesn't make it any less beautiful," she shrugs, grinning sheepishly at the android. 

"Kind of like people," he says distantly, setting his hands in his lap as his gaze met hers, and she felt her heart almost stop. His eyes were such a gorgeous shade of brown, it made her feel like if she stared too long, she'd get lost in them.

"Yeah, I suppose art  _can_ be like people, in some ways," she averts her gaze, a light blush creeping its way onto her cheeks. "Imperfect, yet each one is uniquely different, no stroke on a canvas can be replicated in exactly the same way, just like how no strand of DNA is exactly the same, varying from person to person. Yet, humanity chooses to force us to be like each other, to be the same, to reject just what makes us different. No one person is the same as another, there will always be something different."

"Unlike androids," he mutters, face falling. "Androids only vary by models. Yet, with each model, we are not different. All RK800 models look and sound exactly like me. I am not unique."

"Sure you are. So, maybe you do look exactly like all the other RK800 androids, but not a single one of them is  _exactly_ like you. Maybe you're not different in the way you look, and maybe I don't really know anything about you from the total hour we've known each other, but I can tell that there's something completely unique about you," she mindlessly takes one of his hands in hers, and she isn't really sure why she does it, but she doesn't take her hand away. "A difference in the way you think, in the way you  _feel_. Am I wrong?"

"You're not... wrong," he says hesitantly, feeling something weird in his chest. "So, perhaps androids can be different from each other, under certain circumstances, that doesn't necessarily change that we are essentially the same."

"You don't feel like you're a special android?" she asks him, and for once he's caught off-guard, sincerity so clearly present in her voice. "Like you aren't unique in some way?"

"Not really, no," Connor admits, and she shakes her head. "I may be able to think differently than other androids, and I may be able to feel... things. But I am still an android, one that can simply be replaced when broken."

"Wow, that's what humanity thinks of androids?" she sounds... surprised? "Connor, you aren't just some android that can be replaced by sending another android that looks and sounds exactly like you. Because he won't be  _you_. Androids lose the personality they've developed when they die. You're unique in  _personality_. I don't care what the rest of humanity says, either. Every android is unique, just like every human is unique, and every painting is unique. That's why you have a serial number, it's how I know that you're  _you_."

"You really believe that?" Connor asks in awe. Nobody had ever told him that before, he didn't know that  _anybody_ could view him in that kind of light, in that high of regard. And he was only there to  _protect_ her. How could anyone want to kill this woman?

"Yeah, I do. I refuse to believe that you or any other android are the same as anyone. I don't care if he looks exactly the same down to the tiniest freckle on your face. You are unique," she insists, squeezing his hand in hers gently. "Okay?"

"I am unique," he repeats, and she smiles, nodding. His LED flashes yellow, and she catches it this time because it stays yellow for several seconds, before turning back to blue. "Thank you, (Y/N)."

"For what? It's just how I see things," she shrugs, taking her hand away. She sits back against the arm of the chair for a moment, looking over to the book case at the other end of the room. She hummed in thought for a moment, before her eyes landed on her senior yearbook. 

_"Do you remember what I wrote you in your fucking yearbook!?"_

She gasps, jumping up from the couch and rushing over to the bookshelf, crouching down on her knees to grab the yearbook off the bottom shelf. Connor had gotten up to follow her, concerned at her sudden movements to the other end of the room. Once she had the book in her hands, she rushes past the android and back to the couch, sitting down and setting the yearbook down on the coffee table. "Connor, come look!"

"What is it, (Y/N)?" he asks, briskly walking over to the couch and taking a seat beside her, closer this time. Her fingers run lightly along the cover, seeing it for the first time since she placed it on the shelf years ago.

"It's my old high school yearbook. Otis wrote me a message in here when we graduated. Back then, I thought it was a joke, but when he came to me tonight, he mentioned it again," she says, flipping open the cover to reveal a message written in black on the inside of the cover. The handwriting was piss-poor, barely legible, but she could still read it nonetheless.

_"Dear (Y/N), congratulations, we survived. Damn, what a year. You are the most wonderful human being alive, if you aren't my sister in the future, I'll fucking kill you, and burn your house down. Please, (Y/N), don't make me have to do something I don't want to. But if I can't have you, then neither can anybody else. I can't say enough to express how much you mean to me in life. I love you, man. I'll watch over you, just promise me you'll watch over me. -Otis"_

"He seems... ill," Connor says, memorizing every word to send report of this new information to Hank. She rereads the words carefully, as if trying to uncover some hidden meaning behind his words, but there was no hidden meaning. He meant what he said. He wasn't smart enough to hide anything at the time.

"At the time, I thought it was some really weird joke. I mean, back then we always talked about killing ourselves and each other," she sighs, running a finger over the ink. She shook her head, dragging her finger down away from the writing and off the book. "Not once back then did it raise any red flags. We were so close that it never crossed my mind that one day..."

She trails off, flipping through the pages of people's faces she would never recognize, until she lands on the pages for the seniors. She flips through these pages much slower, reading through names until she came upon the page Otis was on. She points to a kid with a creepy, fake grin, eyebrows narrowed with his pupils blown wide. "That's his picture, from when he was 19, that is."

Connor says nothing, he only stares, scanning the picture and searching his file. Otis Keller, criminal record for drug trafficking/distribution, probation violation, and aggravated assault. "He seems to have a pretty short criminal record for someone who just suddenly commits murder."

"That's just because you only know about the crimes he was  _caught_ for," she sits back against the couch, leaving the page wide open. "He did a lot of really bad things when we were teenagers, put me in harm's way on multiple occasions. One time he almost got me shot when he screwed over one of his "clients" buying meth from him. The guy was so pissed he put a gun up to my head and threatened to blow my brains all over the window. That was the last straw, and I packed up all my shit, and I left."

"In fact, when I  _did_ move, I moved here, and the first painting I made in Detroit was this one," She stands, walking over to the painting on the wall next to the bookshelf and pointing to it. "I made it while thinking about Otis, how angry he made me, how he made me feel worthless. It took being torn apart and left alone to pick the pieces back up for me to realize the beauty in life, and humanity. It took being treated like nothing to make me finally understand that I am more than what Otis made me feel like."

"It's a beautiful painting," Connor says, having walked up to join her at her side, looking closer at the canvas. As an android, he'd never really stopped to appreciate the wonders of art, of creation, he never really had the time to do so before. "I've never seen anything quite like this before."

"And that's the magic of art, Connor. Each painting on the wall represents something more than what it shows," she smiles, turning to face the android beside him. "Like, some of them just represent a feeling, others represent ideas, or people who I once held dear. Each one is like a different memory to me."

"Each one is special and unique in its own way," Connor hums, glancing around the room at all the paintings. He could never truly understand how  _she_ felt about her own paintings, having put her own blood, sweat, and tears into each carefully painted work, painting out every single emotion to be permanently etched into the canvas.

"Yeah, exactly. See? Now you're gettin' it!" she smiles, patting him on the shoulder. She turns away, going back to the yearbook and closing it. "Do you think you'll need this? To find him?"

"I've already scanned and cataloged his face and his message, I will relay the information you've given me to Lieutenant Anderson to assist in the case," Connor states simply, following her over to the table. "I don't think that it will be necessary anymore."

"Okay, cool," she picks up the yearbook and takes it back over to the bookshelf, sliding it back into place on the bottom shelf. She turns back to face him, letting out a tired yawn.

"It's been a long night, (Y/N). I think you should go to bed," Connor walks over to her, tilting his head in that adorable way again. "I will keep watch and make sure you are safe."

"Thanks, Connor. Goodnight."


End file.
